Learning a language

À

we learn a language to understand another way

of what and why do we care

if we can communicate with someone who lives across

the sea, in a place where trains run on time

and politicians care about their people

no such places exist yet the lure of language persists

as if in learning, we’ll open our hearts to 

some unknown place that yearns to be discovered

between the conditional and subjunctive for

in between knowing and confusion we search

some version of the truth 

the writing coach

 he greeted me with a generous smile in spite

of my tardy arrival, rushing in from the heat

my poems tucked under my armpit

as if to hide them from his critical eye

my tardiness swept aside, he inquired 

so gently what i hoped to accomplish here

with him, and the security guard sitting so close

did I have to tell him, too

he was not there to pick apart the words, themes, rhythms

and so i responded

very carefully, whispering the question

whether 

these poems tucked under the armpit

will breathe better once released. 

Suspended in space

I dare not wash my hands out of  respect for the spider 

Suspended in her web in my washbasin. 

Is she wondering, like me, what that next step will be, the entry

Into an unknown which may lead to better horizons, or not,

For her,  the freshness of the outdoors, for me, more time inside pondering words,

Syntax and shape, capitalization and story telling.

When night falls and I mount the stairs to brush my teeth,

Will she be there to accompany me on our journeys

Or shall I travel alone.

 

Look closely

Stop.

Look closely now that you are home

In the quiet, far removed from the vibrancy and drama

Of the big city, the sounds and smells, the landscape that penetrated 

Every sense, every cell the moment you stepped outside.

Stop.

Look closely now at the details of the seed head, the dandelion

That insisted on growing in the garden, unwanted, but persistent.

She has so much beauty in her radiating delicacy, each seed waiting

For the perfect lofting breeze to send her skyward, towards

Other gardens waiting for her perfection, even in their not-knowing,

Stop.

Look closely at the clover and the violas dispersed amongst the 

Grass, so carefully tended for the grandchildren who care only

To feel the cool, wet green between their toes.  

 

My Friend, Billy

How could I have known that this lanky boy with a big smile

Would end up as an artist, his imaginings transforming into the crazy folding

Of paper forms decorated by the randomly falling ink droplets emitted

To the timing of humming motors and interlocking gears.

How could I have imagined that this lanky boy would reappear in my life

As a grown man, someone I would want to spend the whole day and more

Wandering past giant-sized photographs the American worker dwarfed within

The bowels of a jet engine, or leaning over silicon wafers in a semiconductor fab.

And loving it all, every minute.

I could never have imagined this as the train clacked its way down from Boston to NYC,

The thing about imagination - anything is possible, we must

Only show up for it when it does.  

 

My half-brother is now my brother

 We had never had times like this, 

I'm panting to keep up with him on this 

strenuous bike ride through the Park, stopping en route to listen to 

West African music, the party goers likely preparing for the upcoming France-Senegal match

There was a lake off to the side, we passed by the restaurant and circled back

To find it together, a generous nod to our time in Senegal, decades apart.

This man is no longer my little brother, the 13 year old that lost his father

Too young, sobbing in the pews of the Unitarian Church in Chicago.

Only yesterday, I opened his front door to gasp at the sublime interior, filled with antiques

The product of an artist's eye, the work of this half-brother, who is now a full

Fledged brother, no longer the "kid" who worried about losing his siblings when

The patriarch passed on so young.

Let us not pass up any more opportunities to be together, to ride and to walk together

In spite of challenges that inspire deep respect and admiration.

We had never had times like this, but we will have them again.

The visit

 

My eyes drifted towards the wooden planks, 

Out the window at the pool cover, sagging from 

The leaden weight of snow, a brutal winter.

Her voice flowed over me like the sea, a myriad

Of pebbles of memories rushing towards me,

The accumulation following decades of silence. 

A frozen friendship waiting to be thawed, 

A seemingly urgent rush of words without a comma, 

Nor the briefest semi-colon, my gaze shifts to

The new appliances, the ones that will help sell

This majestic home that may still echo with 

Children’s cries, small running feet along the 

Floorboards above, the creaking of mattress springs.

Finally I turn my face to her, the jowls of age

Softened in the telling, our eyes meet as we rise, 

The chairs scraping, the wheels of my overstuffed 

Suitcase rolling towards the door.

Walking the Freedom Trail

Just follow the red painted line, or the one of red brick,

And it will tell you a tale of our country, from the Old North Church,

Where lanterns were hung, of bullets and fallen men, 

Let this path take you to Faneuil Hall where they met and schemed,

Wear a good pair of shoes for crossing bridges, stepping carefully 

Over uneven cobblestone or lumpy grassy fields dotted with 

The gravestones of those who trodded the paths here over

Two hundred years ago.

And when it all blurs into one long tangled history,

Find another vibrant coffee shop or quiet garden to rest,

Hoping that in two hundred years this trail will still guide

Us towards knowledge, that the threads and tears of today

Will not have shredded all that we have endured 

To date.  

 

MIT and the Isabella Gardner Museum

They say the people who work there don't like it, the obtuse and the acute angles,

The irregular hallways and jutting windows, this is the replacement for the

Boxy WWII army-style architecture where I studied so many years ago, 

Grey walls replaced by shiny metal surfaces and glossy displays of the latest in 

Tech and science propelling us into the new world order

Where I hope to catch a glimpse of a twirling skirt and the sound of 

Spanish guitars, feel the warmth of human connection in music,

Breathe in the humid air and sweet smell of mock orange,

Delight in the ridiculously gaudy blossoms of the foxglove

Luring us towards death, we refuse, ricocheting between the

Accelerating pace of artificial intelligence, and the places where

We only wish to rest amidst the blooms and paintings of the 

Romantic era. 

I could see rainbows through the mist at Harvard University

 I remember the rainbows in my eyes looking across the mist,

My son racing from rock to rock, blue sweatpants darkened by moisture,

The glee of a three year old, soon followed by a little sister who was not yet

Toddling, only crowing from the stroller in the tandem of happinesss.

I remember the clouds and the rain, the long winters, the money struggles of 

Small children, graduate student and postdoc salaries, if they call it that, 

Yet we prevailed, and they grew up.  

I remember the banners of Veritas, the coming back to this place, 

The double vision of the past, with me in a crimson graduation gown, now

Looking across a cloud, through the mist in my eyes, to see her in a crimson 

Gown from atop the stairs of Widener, where we all learned to grow up

Somehow and move into the world, the mist still in our eyes as we look

Forward towards uncertainty, finding an occasional solid rock beneath

Our feet, and carrying the solemn joyful memories inside our hearts. 

Popping a balloon in an MIT strobe lab

 I didn't seem to be able to count to three

Until the second go-around, then smiling widely into the microsecond 

Flash, the balloon was burst and recorded for all history.

it was, to be here, so many years ago

In this place, that brilliant minds and timid personalities

were birthed into the dazzling world of science,

This is the place where there was no time to blink,

The balloon of knowledge was bursting in front of us

We had only to grab it, to chew at its corners and

Inhale voraciously.

I'm counting to three now, and ten and 

Twenty, to forty-five years gone by, still staggered

By flashes of brilliance resonating within these

Hallowed halls. 

The best coffee, the best friends

 No, I had never used a frother, and been offered the use of the car, and

Been accompanied on a custom bike to experience the green, dense forests 

on the way to White Pond, 

No, I don't recall feeling so cared for and so pampered,

My taste buds rejoiced when savoring the simple meal we shared.  

Yes to Paul and Rebecca, yes to Amaya, we will see each other again!

You are all so beloved, my heart is so full of joy. 

Warm in your little Concord home, so cozy, with the fancy

"Authentic polyester" throws on the couch and chair, the balcony

Looking out onto towering fir trees, 

The beautiful flowers on the table greet me this morning, even

More special that they were for Paul for his 15 years teaching.

And I smile when I spot the intricate spiderweb woven  under the 

Small stool, no doubt the small resident feels the same. 

On the road again

Maybe I only think that I like to be home,

A self-described home-body, my friends scoff in disbelief

Since I flit from place to place, Japan in April, a week in 

Santa Monica, and how gazing out at the plane which will fly

Me to Massachusettts, vertigo be damned.

A chat on the bus with a Chinese scholar, another,

A Mexican father with his children, as we wait for the gate

To open, why not watch the last half of The Matrix

And what a thrill to see my friend waiting for me at Logan,

Some 42 years after we met on an Amtrak train.  

Why not travel all the time, actions do speak louder

Than words.

On the road again.

 

The last morning together

She never smiles for the camera but I caught her in that last moment

Of being together, in a cozy bed, under a cozy comforter, with her Mimi.

That's me.

And the little one to the side, a moment before he started trying to lie on top of her,

We were all so peaceful, smiling, happy, in those moments before I had to say good-bye

For now.

Why does my heart ache so when I have to say good-bye, knowing that I'll see them

Again under sunny Colorado skies, so soon, even,

But that moment when she smiled, he clutched his new robot toy, the

Moment before they started squabbling over contested purses, 

His with two colors, but smaller, hers, bigger but missing the seahorse

Which she had placed in her new Fanny pack.  

She smiled and so did I, my heart prematurely aching for the many

Miles soon to be between us. 

 

And then there were two

There were two, after all, big sister with crocheted purse

And a little brother, who was usually in the shadow of his big sister.

We heard him, though, his small voice filling the empty spaces

With reverberations of protest and demands, the compelling voice

Of a three year old.

There were two, after all, a second smaller crocheted purse, in 

Two colors, the masterpiece of a beginning artist

Trained at the knees of the Master 

There were two, after all, two plastic bunnies fought over

By two siblings, there were two, after all, two parents who

Raise their eyebrows in disbelief at their good fortune,

The endless challenges of two, there are two, after all,

Two sides to every story.  

 

Crocheting for Barbie

She wanted me to crochet her a sweater in multiple-colored yarn 

But we settled on beach outfit for Barbie, multi-colored with contrasting bows

Using yarn for beginners, the single strands for the clumsiest fingers.

She wanted to learn, struggling to hold the right yarn tension between pointer

And thumb, her hands unsure how, I assured her that it took me many many

Many hours to master, so we settled on threading the yarn around the crochet hook

As my more experienced fingers held the yarn for her.

Each successful stitch resulted in the broadest smile, the greatest accomplishment

Ever for the both of us, this lazy afternoon after kindergarten, before the 

Demands of washing hands and eating dinner.

Deliriously delightful. 

 

Six year olds on the move - leaving the old behind

We had half a block of convo, as she calls it,

The dreamy comings and goings of free-form ideas punctuated

By the excitement of a newly discovered blossom, a roly-poly

Spotted next to the crack on the sidewalk.

Eliza called out to us, and the spell was broken,

The roly-poly tossed aside, the scooter abruptly rotated

Some ninety degrees and my lovely companion was gone,

The sweet moment replaced by the shouting of a couple six year girls

Now jogging, scooting, discussing the book fair, yet again

Interrupted by Caroline, who has now appeared at the corner,

The parents tossed aside like old news, the three shuffling

And scooting and talking on top of each other, about 

Everything and nothing, the convo of the young who no

Longer need the old.  

 

Who loves shopping more?

I'm not sure who is the kid who loves to shop.

Is it the big kid who hoists the little kid up to survey the possibilities,

As she clutches her shiny pink wallet with the matching fuzzy pompon ball

Dangling below.

It's not clear who is loving the careful selection process, the counting of money,

The need for a bit more than what is available from the cookie sale.

it's not clear whether the bigger kid will pull out his wallet and add funds

Or whether he will hold firm on budget

But as I listen from the adjacent aisle, my confidence in his willpower is rapidly dwindling

As the case is made for a tiny bit more money to buy that Barbie,

The one with the impossibly high red heels on feet that could never work in real life.

Purchases made, I join them at the exit, (perhaps not) surprised to see that the little girl

Has a Barbie in her arms, and more money in her wallet than before arrival.

The big kid that hoisted her to survey the goods could not hold the line,

This is no surprise to me, being married to this big kid with the huge heart,

Who can never say no to a little six year old girl who climbs 

In his arms and says, "please....."

 

Making money the old fashioned way - Bake Sale!

The prices have gone up but no one seems to mind,

Pulling out their phones and scanning the Venmo app, no more

Scrounging for ten cents or a dollar, a cookie is now $2, a deal for

Three.  

what's $5 when rent is $7000/month and a coffee costs $15 with tip

And service charge.

Times have changed, but the younger set is still thirsting for a new Barbie,

So they call out to every passerby, "Cookies for Sale!  Come on over!"

And they do, mostly women, their iPhones bulging in their yoga pants,

Slim and stylish, neatly coiffed and broadly smiling.

And as the sale winds to a close, and the mothers dwindle, as the wind

Picks up and the clouds hover, the remaining cookies are reduced for 

Quick sale.

"Free cookies!  Come and get one!" 

the girls having now shifted to counting and scheming 

What to buy, how to get there and how soon.  

 

When Motherhood was in Black and White - and thankfully it changed

Back in the day, there was no discussion, no space to disagree,

Risking the vacuum of being unseen.

Everything was black and white, yes or (no), 

The Matriarchs decided what to wear, when to eat,

The Patriarch mandated silence at the dinner table

(Regardless if you were choking on tough chunks of meat),

We all obeyed because they ruled in black and white.

Memories of Grandma's face enveloped in the grey cloud

Of cigarette smoke, and the grey landscape of life at home

With Mother, perhaps black and white would at least have offered

Contrast, and maybe a rainbow could have occasionally 

Burst through the seams of darkness.

They are smiling in this black and white photo but

I know that their entwined lives were mostly black,

Dreary in misunderstandings and steeped only in responsibility.

Today, there is color in mothering, reds and yellows, greens

And pinks, the drama of disagreement, the warmth of love

And connection, I see it everywhere even in the black and

White moments of difficulty, a rainbow will emerge,

A pot of gold at the base.

Such is love.

 

Karen and Felix 

Tori and Warren

So colorful!

There's a rainbow in my breakfast bowl

There's a rainbow in my breakfast bowl,

And I know not from where it came.

There is no prism hanging in my window, 

Only a squirrel staring at me from the bird feeder,

Only new buds on the Serviceberry bush,

There is no optical grating, not a single thing

That explains this rainbow.

I place the rainbow on my hand to raise it,

Seeking its source only to find that my rainbow

Has disappeared, as has the squirrel.

Conclusion:  the squirrel must have delivered

The rainbow to my bleary eyes this 

Lovely morning.  

 

The $150 haircut...never again

Why is it that on the third cut, the price goes up,

the quality drops, and we women are left clutching our emptied wallets

somewhat grief-stricken at the misspent funds at the hairdresser.

I have noticed this, that the first cut is attentive and less expensive,

the second, perhaps the same price, and not quite so great and the

third is accomplished by the same hairdresser who is clearly a thousand

miles away, finishing a cut that she knows well enough to do on 

auto-pilot.

But, oh!  the casual passing of her bill to me, and on seeing the

price having increased 33%, and add the tip, I am momentarily 

speechless, but having spoken of travels to Japan and such, aware

that she knows I must have the money in my pocket somewhere

and I do.

But, it's not worth it to me, this $150 haircut, with tip, I wish her

well, she has her bills, but surely, we women must rise up against 

the industry of the overpriced hairdresser.

Vanity is only worth so much.

 

Re-reading a lovely book that I did not remember at all

I know that I read this before so 

I picked it up and turned to the last story in the book

In fact, I often start at the last paragraph if I'm feeling tentative. 

The Most Beautiful Book is made of cigarette papers glued together,

A collection of recipes shared by Soviet prison camp women with their children

Who anxiously await the return of their mothers, never knowing if they

Will be reunited, and I wondered how I would want to be remembered,

Whether it would be the crepes, the ones my own mother made for me,

The ones that were cut into strips for inclusion in the next days soup.

Or the brownies that my mother and I had made, the ones that

My daughter and I made, each generation having learned to

Cut many tiny slices which added up to them being

Consumed at a breathtaking pace.

I don't know why I picked up this book, having no recollection,

One of those brilliant moments that come upon us,

Like the sun rising over the horizon. 

 

Jet lag: the biggest price of travel to Japan

 The body has no idea what time it is,

Wondering why I am in bed when it's mid day in Tokyo!

And why am I am in bed when I'm hungry?

Ah, the price of travel, not the money,

The reality that even the big brained people

Who view their bodies as mere vehicles for 

Transporting the mind are brought to earth

As the body decides how to navigate the 

Fifteen hour, yes, fifteen hour, time change.

The body does not like such things,

Oh no, oh no, 

The body says, I do not like this travel thing,

Oh no, oh no.  

Before I forget - reflections on Japan

Before I forget the feeling of Japan, before I 

Forget the ease of being in their culture, how their manners

Allow a fluidity in daily movement, in spite of not knowing 

More than three expressions in Japanese.  

There is no waste here, the sperm sac of the cod is a 

Delicacy I spite of my recoil, as is every part of the 

Multitude of sea life pulled from the ocean.  

There is a moderation in manner and consumption-

Only on entering the United lounge at Narita airport am

I reminded that most Americans consume way more than 

Is needed, shirts stretched tight over sagging bellies.  

The Japanese smiled at us, visitors to their country,

In spite of who we are, too often loud and messy.  

On the street, they are neatly dressed, the groups of

Salarymen are laughing and chatting together even though

It’s well past the end of the American work day.  

There are no overflowing trash bins, everyone carries

Their trash home to be properly sorted, and restrooms are immaculate, bidets in all public toilets.  There is no toilet paper strewn on the floor like you see in America. 

The workmen directing traffic are polite and neatly dressed.  The gardener meticulously clearing small weeds from the pathway is focused on his work. 

Yet young couples are enjoying life everywhere, holding hands, parents are strolling their babies.

What lessons do I wish to take from the Japanese? 

Be attentive to others needs. 

Speak softly and remember to smile.

Small tasks deserve focus and presence (gardening!)

Clean up after yourself and put things away. 

Don’t over consume.  

Enjoy life and show respect in your actions.  

 

Yep, I’ll just follow him: Japan

 I’ll admit it.

I have no sense of direction so, if forced to travel solo,

Which I am not, in this foreign country with three alphabets, densely populated, with train stations that could 

Contain small cities, this country of Japan,

I would have resorted to lengthy study of physical maps, the ones you can’t even buy anymore,  to imprint the concept of the place into my mind. 

I would have marked every landmark in yellow, and 

Traced my routes in red.  In this day of Google Maps 

And YouTube,  I instead studied videos of people buying 

Tickets to get from Narita Airport to Tokyo Station,  to get an idea of the terrain, and quickly recognized that I would

Have to trust in my abilities once on the ground. 

Yet, once here, I relinquished my agency to my companion, he being so more confident, even in his mistakes, that I often followed him like child, feeling rather pathetic, 

 But also liberated from the task of navigation. 

Instead I could take in the view, the chaotic blur of 

Constant movement, or the peaceful Zen of the gardens.

Finding peace in Kyoto. Wake early.

Finding peace in Kyoto.  Wake early. 

It’s what the French tourist in the packed restaurant advised me, over the hubbub of voices, the Australians

And the English, the Koreans and the Americans,

The sun rises early. Get up.

The empty bus and quiet streets greeted us, 

Instead of teeming hordes of tourists in the temple,

Monks hurried past us, their slippers shuffling along 

The polished wooden flooring. 

Only the birds chattered in treetops, 

Rocks carefully arranged in moss and raked gravel

Tell stories of a mother tiger and her cubs 

Playing alongside a stream.

You will be glad you did.

 

They dress better in Kyoto but what did the Emperor do all day?

She looked refreshingly elegant in her long skirt, jacket and boots as we exited the train station.

They dress better in Kyoto, we have left the drab utilitarianism of Hiroshima behind us.

Our host told me that people in Hiroshima after the war were viewed with suspicion,

The fear they carried radiation on their bodies; some 80 years later has this fear settled 

Into the clothing choices of the people that live there.

I have to wonder, it is so striking.

I detest Trump, and his plans for ballrooms and arches, but

 I do admire the extravagant palaces that the Emperors built in Japan,

Impossible to understand the need for so many empty rooms for hosting messengers, visiting dignitaries,

Royal families, and who knows who else, ridiculous even, but impressive.

We just don't build this sort of structure anymore; the public would be outraged.

Paintings of tigers, eagles, chrysanthemums and all manner of flora and fauna adorn the walls,

Tatami mats cover the floors, but I miss the glitter and extravagance of Versailles, 

The mirrors and furniture which tell me what may have gone on there, and besides,

The movies that we can watch about Louis XIV and his court.  

What did the Emperor and his ilk do all day in those beautiful, but empty, spaces?

Maybe we can never really know.  Like most things in life.